


pearl buttons at his throat

by angelheartbeat



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Derse/Prospit Royalty, Ballroom Dancing, Derse, Derse and Prospit, Derse/Prospit war, M/M, Negotiations, Prospit, Royalty, Royalty AU, Slow Burn, War, kingdoms at war, peace treaty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-14 02:09:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11198244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelheartbeat/pseuds/angelheartbeat
Summary: Everyone knows of the war that rages between the great lands of Prospit, the land of light, and Derse, the land of darkness. How could they not, when it demands to be fought?Not everyone knows of the royal inner workings, the betrayers and the betrayed, the sacrificed, the loved, the lost, and the suffering. Not everyone knows the true story.It is time it was told.





	pearl buttons at his throat

Wind whips through your hair, stinging your bespectacled eyes and flooding, sharp and bright, into waiting lungs, feeding your starved limbs and oxygenating your brain to move faster, stealthier.

Leaves crunch underfoot as you move swiftly, twigs bending and snapping with ease beneath your light footfall, your movements deft and expert. The great forms of trees loom around you; roots lie threateningly in your path, but you dodge and swerve with a finesse that betrays just how well you know these woods. Your fingers are curled around a familiar shape - your bow, smooth curved wood shaped to fit your grip over years of use. It is only thanks to memory and reflexes that it does not smash into trees as you pass by nimbly, leaping and hurrying, heading nowhere in particular.

As always, you are thankful for your dark clothing, allowing for your nimble mobility with fine fabrics that still astound you with their sheer beauty, even for a simple outfit such as your current huntsman's garb. It means that even as you leap, quick as the foxes that prowl this very area, you cannot be spotted, or so you always hope. Many of the animals in this forest are unforgivably observant. It makes hunting quite a pain. It would be even worse with the typical golden Prospit colours, however, so you are thankful that you are able to have dark clothing for your hunts, at the very least.

The light in the forest is dark but slowly brightening, casting dappled shadows on the ground and warning you that your window of opportunity is dwindling, and soon the day will begin, and you will have duties to attend to.

For now, you are a hunter, agile as a rabbit and careful as a deer, prepared to bolt or fight at a moments notice, the heavy weight of the dagger at your hip a reminder that you are likely not the only human in this forest, and not all humans liked the pleasantries and reasoning you typically employed to defuse serious situations. The idea of using it makes you shudder and almost stumble, but you pull yourself back up, sure-footed as ever.

Out of the corner of your eye you spot a deer, lowering his antlered head to inspect something, and your pace slows to a crawl, eyes locked on your new target. Instinctively, you reach behind yourself for an arrow from the quiver on your back and nock it to the bow.

You exhale slow, careful, gentle. Wouldnt want to startle the creature. With an experts aim, you draw back the taut string, breathing slow and measured, preparing to let the arrow fly.

The deer lifts his head, meets your eyes, and bounds off into the thick forest, quiet as you like.

Your breath turns into a curse.

Somewhat disappointed, you return your arrow to the quiver and move off again, treading even lighter now you know what you are in pursuit of. It has been too long since you did this, and your practise is failing. All skills deteriorate when not in constant use, and it is not entirely necessary for you to hunt your own meat, but you like to contribute any way you can, and this is the only way you know how - early-morning stealth, hunting and retrieving deer and rabbits that aren't necessitated but appreciated, and you enjoy feeling appreciated.

Another deer catches your eye, a doe, and with your breath catching in your throat you nock another arrow, swallowing down the lump rising in your throat. The doe does not move as you slip behind a tree and aim the deadly arrow for her throat. There is a brief flicker of remorse as you pull the string taut and far, taking deadly aim and regulating your breathing as best you can.

As you exhale, you let the arrow fly, and know even as it soars that it is a perfect shot, and it puts a slight smile on your face to know you still have the skill, albeit slightly rusty. The arrow buries itself deep within the does neck, and she thuds to the floor without so much as a sound, scarlet oozing from the wound as you move from your spot and pluck the arrow from her lifeless body, wiping it on your tunic with a grimace. You stick it back in your quiver, despite lingering remains of deer blood. You never quite got out of the habit of saving your arrows.

Bending down, you quickly figure out the best way to transport the deer's form and haul her upwards, slinging her over your shoulder and wincing at the feeling of warm blood dripping down your cloak. You knew you should drain the body of blood - but you simply do not have time. The dappled light shining through the emerald canopy is lightening, and if you do not hurry then the castle will be in full motion when you return, and you'd much rather escape while you can and rest for a while before the inevitable hustle and bustle of the day beginning.

You carry the deer all the way back to the edge of the forest, and cast a longing glance into the murky depths before heading out, managing to only look back once. 

The town is still drowsy as you enter, hood drawn up so as not to be recognised. A few people spare you a curious glance, the few people awake at this time, that is. There are a few nods of appreciation at the sizeable deer hanging over your shoulder, and you nod back, a thrill of warmth in your heart that you earnt their approval even when disguised as a simple hunter. Your boots click on the cobbled stone and you relish the simple sound as you make your way to the castle.

You have never, nor will you ever, understood why the castle housing the royalty of Prospit is situated in such a humble town, not that you're complaining. The quietness of it is welcome. Perhaps it is because Prospit is made of humble towns, perhaps it is the choice of the King, perhaps it is just the way it is. You certainly aren't going to question a royal decision.

When you enter the castle, it is predictably just waking up, but in the kitchen there is none over than the chef and the princess herself, kneading what appears to be bread, while the smell of already-baking loaves fills the room and wafts enticingly up your nose. You make your presence known with a clearing of your throat and a few steps into the room, searching for a empty surface to deposit the spoils of your early morning hunt. 

"Good morning!" you say pleasantly, finding a spot and making a beeline to it, easing the weight off your shoulder and placing it on the rough wooden surface. The princess, your cousin, turns her head, giving you a smile.

"Good morning," she returns, eyes sparkling behind her glasses. Jane Crocker is a remarkable princess, by all accounts. Loved by her people, loved by her family, a baker before a princess and a lover before a fighter. You couldn't imagine her any other way than how she is, and you feel your face melting into a genuine smile at her own.

"You're up early, Princess, chef," you comment as you remove your bloodstained cloak and fold it, placing the fabric near the door in a feeble attempt to remember it later, dreading the royal tailors berating. The chef ducks her head as she continues kneading, and speaks quietly, and you wonder if she is still afraid of you.

"If Your Highness doesn't mind me saying so, then Your Highness was also up rather early, and bringing in a mighty deer, dare I say it," she says softly, and Jane nudges her with a floury elbow.

"You remember I told you that you may call us Jane and Jake when we are not in a formal setting?" she asked kindly, and you watch with love as the chef smiled nervously. You have always loved Jane's knack of making all her subjects feel comfortable and safe, and you know that she would make a wonderful queen someday, were it not for her brother already earning the title of heir to the throne - her own decision, despite her being his elder, given her love for the kitchens. One must find it hard to knead bread when your hands are full with sceptres and jewels and you are sat atop the throne of a kingdom.

"However, thank you for the compliment, dearest!" you interject, noting the chefs cheeks flushing. Whether it was with fluster or heat, you did not know. "Almost caught a buck, you know. He got away in the end. I just thought, given the happenings today, I could do my part to contribute to those working so hard to make it perfect."

Jane clicked her tongue, chiding. "Jake, you know you dont have to do that."

"And yet, my darling, you are elbow-deep in what appears to be not the first loaf of the day. Speaking of which, they smell simply divine. Save me some? Oh, and chef, darling? Do whatever you see fit with the doe, I just know I will adore your handiwork no matter what." As you speak, you retreat up the stone steps, boots clicking, bundled cloak in hand - you remembered it after all - and a smile dancing across your lips.

"Off already, Your High- Jake?" Chef asks tentatively, and Jane casts her a brilliant smile, which she returns with slightly less enthusiasm, and you chuckle, tucking your cloak beneath your arm.

"Regrettably, yes. Much to be done!" And then you are off, pushing open the heavy wooden door and slipping out into the halls. A few servants smile at you as you make your way to the royal tailors quarters, and you smile back, as you always do. By your reckoning, the morning is still young, and as such perhaps you can get a few winks of sleep in once you have visited the tailor, although somehow you doubt it. 

When you knock on the door to the tailors and are rewarded with a call to enter, your senses are assaulted by the glow of candlelight and the scent of flowers, strong and overpowering, roses, if you were not mistaken. The tailor sits amongst what you recognise as finery for the day, and hardly glances up as she stitches away, until you cough gently and grab her attention.

The tailor is a fierce but motherly person, often slightly intimidating, even when she is armed with little but a needle and thin, airy fabrics. Her dark hair is short like Jane's, but rather more curled and styled, her lips coloured with black and jade pigment you are sure should be reserved for the royals themselves, but who are you to judge? You hardly know how these things work. 

"Good morning, Jake," she says smoothly, having grasped the concept of informal names far more completely than the chef, bless her heart. You smile and hope you're charming her enough to not be chided too harshly for the deer blood all over your cloak.

"Good morning, Kanaya," you say with a grin, noting that the scent of roses is fading away as your nose adjusts. You briefly wonder why Kanaya has developed an affinity for that particular scent, but brush it off and return to the task at hand. "I've brought a task for you, if it is not too much bother?" She doesn't appear particularly amused. 

"Goodness, Your Highness, one would believe you could keep your garments out of trouble for all of a week. What have you managed to do now?" Her tone is composed and slightly reprimanding, but there's a familiar twinkle in her eye that makes you relax, that indicates she's only fooling about, as she is wont to do.

Holding out the cloak in front of you, you smile awkwardly as Kanaya assesses the damage. Given that its a black cloak, the bloodstains aren't immediately visible, but once you look closer they're very much there, and Kanaya narrows her eyes at you. 

"Now, Kanaya, don't look at me like that, there's a very good reason behind it."

"Jake, dearest, why are you bringing it to me? There is nothing to be mended. Take it to someone who'll wash it for you. I mend and sew, I do not wash."

Your face falls slightly. You cant believe you forgot what the royal tailor actually did - you sort of assumed all garment-based mishaps were her forte, but yes, she was right. "Ah. Yes. My apologies, Kanaya."

"Stay out of trouble, Jake."

Face flooded with heat, you exchange inclinations of your heads and quickly scurry out, allowing Kanaya to continue stitching and mentally cursing yourself for completely forgetting her duties as tailor. Now she likely thought you were even more forgetful than she did before. The crisp air hits you, harsh after the heady scents thick in Kanaya's chambers, and you breathe in the fresh air with just a hint of shame. 

Pawning your cloak off on a servant hurrying past, you sigh and stretch, vertebrae down your spine clicking their irritation. The castle is slowly awakening; the servants are filling the halls, each either nodding at you or avoiding your gaze, a few shooting you bitter glances. You try your damnedest to ignore the last few, and eventually return to your quarters and shut the heavy oak door, sighing and running a hand through your hair.

Your room is humble, the way you like it - none of the opulence John or Jane or Jade go in for. That has never been your style. Instead, your room is simple; plain wooden flooring, a place to put your looking glass and various objects, an iron hook for your bow and a matching one for the quiver, a closet featuring various outfits - ranging from decadent to simple - relics and skulls and so forth littered about the place, and a simple, small bed, upon which were several thick linen sheets, regarded by most of the servants as more befitting of their own class. You think your sheets might be quite the gossip in the servants quarters. That does not surprise you - you as a whole are often subject to whisperings by the lower class, but you dont mind a jot, no matter what Jane says about how you should.

It is onto these thick sheets that you throw yourself now, letting out a deep breath in a huff and closing your eyes, trying to remember the sensation of cool wind on your face and forest debris crunching underfoot. It had all been over far too soon - you almost wished it had taken longer to find the doe, almost wished she had bolted as well, anything to allow yourself to linger just a little longer in the forest that does not just feel like a place you love, it feels like a part of yourself, like your soul is not in your body but, rather, distributed among the trees. It is a calming thought.

Before you can sink into an exhausted slumber, there is a short and excited knock at your door, and you recognise it instantly, calling out a short call that you hoped conveyed permission to enter - and apparently it did, because before long your other cousin was stood in your doorway, already dressed in his finery for the evening.

"It's hardly near noon, John," you say as you note the last point, an amused smile crossing your lips, while John rolls his eyes.

"Ha, ha, Jake. I have to be at a royal meeting soon, thank you very much, and I'd like to impress."

You sit up at that, noting the excited gleam in Johns eye, and remember just how ecstatic he was when he discovered he would be the next king, if phenomenally terrified. He had only been thirteen then, a child, being told that someday he would have a crown on his head, before his sister, before his cousins, before everyone. He hadn't cried. He had never cried, and you found that a monumental achievement, because you'd have sobbed from fear, but not John. He had steeled himself, matured fast, and accepted his duties as Crown Prince, perfectly prepared to accept the throne in the case of the Kings untimely demise. That was a long time ago now - John is nineteen now, a fine young man worthy of the crown, not that he hasn't been since thirteen. You are unbelievably proud of him, and have no doubts that the same applies to both Jane and Jade, not to mention his father. 

"I'm sure you will impress, John, whether you're dressed in fancy garb or not," you say with a reassuring smile, recognising the familiar twitch he gets in his hands when he is nervous, and he gratefully smiles back. "Careful, your pin is crooked."

Reaching out, you adjust his pin carefully. As members of the royal family, you each have your own symbols, embossed into pins that must be worn on your breast at formal events, as is custom. You have heard that Derse have the same tradition, and somehow it calms you to know your enemies are not quite so different after all. Johns is a pigmented blue swirl, reminiscent of wind, while Jane has a rather similar design as though it was stood up and turned green. As far as you're aware they are both very proud of their symbols, and you have caught John polishing his on more than one occasion. Yourself and Jades were slightly different, Jade sporting a simple pattern of curving white lines and you sporting pale golden wings. They blend into your Prospit robes a little too well, and you occasionally wish you had some other colours to choose from besides dark greys and blacks and different shades of gold.

"Thank you, Jake," John says quietly once his pin is affixed back in line, and casts a smile at you, the gap between his front teeth familiar, because you see it reflected in your own looking glass every day. The resemblances are uncanny, given the odd circumstances you find yourself in. People often comment on how alike the princes of Prospit are, speaking fondly of John and somewhat bitterly of you, but you do not mind - after all, you will never be king, so what does it matter whether you win their favour or not? What is important is that they love John.

"Today is quite the day, isn't it, Your Majesty?" you say jokingly, chuckling as John breaks into giggles at the title. 

"Oh, Jake, it's so odd hearing that title come from you."

"You'd best get used to it!"

You smile at one another and exchange a quick embrace, you sighing into John's arms. He feels smaller than ever, even if you have always been slightly bigger than both him and Jane - Jade towered over you all - and you wonder whether hes been avoiding eating again. That had been an intimidating few months, when John had been so terrified of his duties as future king that he had all but forewent meals altogether. But that was back when he was first told of his future duty, and the shock had been unbearable. It was hellish for you; you can't imagine how John felt.

"Well, I'd best be off," John says now, standing up and brushing off his garments. Flecks of dirt colour the golden robes, thanks to mud on your own clothing transferring to your bed, presumably when you tossed yourself atop it.

"Hm? What did you come in here for, then?"

That seems to spring something to the forefront of his mind, because he spins around and looks at you brightly, eyes sparkling. "Ah, yes! I heard both the princes of Derse were searching for suitors!"

You nod at him expectantly, indicating him to continue. He raises an eyebrow at you. "Thus, we can try and form an allegiance through marriage! This war could be over, Jake!"

Ah, yes. The war.

The war has been raging on for what could very well be forever, or at least for as long as you can remember. Derse and Prospit are always at each other's throats, harsh and unforgiving, leaving the bodies of brave men strewn across the border, a trail of death and destruction everywhere they fight. As far as you are aware the King has been trying to negotiate peace for years, but the Crown Prince of Derse - as of yet uncrowned, despite the untimely demise of the ruling monarchs a few years before - has yet to agree to any conditions. Perhaps this marriage allegiance is a good idea, but you wonder who it is to be married. A noble? Jane, perhaps? She wouldn't like it, but her kingdom is perhaps the only thing she loves more than her kitchen. At a stretch, perhaps John would be married, if it was for his kingdom. You are sure it won't be you. Hardly a soul cares about the second Prince of Prospit. Besides, how would peace come about through marriage? You aren't exactly the most political of princes, and keeping up with royal affairs and negotiations has never been your strong point.

"How will marriage bring about peace, John?" you ask, cocking your head, and he grins like you asked exactly the question he was hoping for. Maybe you did.

"Well, with all hopefulness, they'll propose an alliance - peace between the kingdoms brought about by a marriage between the royals. Arranged or otherwise. I'd rather not have any of us be forced into an arranged marriage, but if it came to it I'd be willing to accept one myself. All for Prospit and all that."

"Oh, John, you shouldn't force yourself into a marriage, I'm sure I'd be willing-"

"Jake, its alright. I've been expecting an arranged marriage since I was thirteen. I'm surprised my father is allowing me to even have the opportunity for a marriage of my own choice. Besides, I'd do anything for Prospit."

"So would I. You know if the opportunity arises, I'll take the marriage for the peace. Its the least I can do." But you're not sure you really mean it, in all truth. The idea of a marriage unsettles you, even if it is for the future of Prospit, and you know that should make you feel guiltier than it does. 

You're fairly sure John knows you wouldn't really be okay with it, because he smiles and continues.

"Only if you fall for one of the princes, Jake. Anyway! I'd better be going. Kingly duties and all."

He grins, wide and childish, and you're struck with just how little he seems like he would suit the crown, how much he seems like he should be dancing and playing jokes on servants and doing anything but negotiating the peace of his country. Has he really grown up all that much? He still seems like the young boy you first knew.

Regardless, he leaves, and you lie back on your bed, intending on finally catching up on that sleep you've been missing, and it seems you're in luck. Within moments you're wrapped in the thick sheets of a deep slumber, dreams fueled with apprehension and traces of fear.

You dream about the tales of Derse. The rumours that the sun never shines, the plants never grow, the grass is constantly blanketed in freshly fallen snow that never thaws. The whispers that monsters and great beasts lie in wait across the border, hunting for the telltale signs of Prospitians to maul and bloody and hunt. The stories that say Derse is a cold kingdom, full of humans that drink blood and dine on flesh, houses that ring with cold and conflict, forests with no leaves and a world with no sun. As you dream, you wander through the barren wasteland you've heard of so often, trail your fingers across the rough bark of a fruitless tree, trace shapes in the freezing ivory powder with your worn boots. You have never seen snow in real life, and you often wonder if it is really as cold as they say.

Finding out would require a trip to Derse, however, and it seems you will never achieve that. You remain in Prospit constantly, basking in the warm sun and the emerald hues of forests and farms, enjoying heat and freshness. Whenever Johns royal duties bring you anywhere near the border, you strain to see over the horizon, see whether snow really exists or if it is just a tale the servants spread among themselves to keep them entertained as they serve.

Besides, Prospit must be superior. Despite not having the upper hand in terms of armies (Derse had been pulling ahead in the strife between kingdoms for longer than anyone would like), they clearly had nicer subjects, nicer climate, nicer everything - although you are rather partial to purple, given how close to blue it is, and everyone knows Prince Jake's love for blue, on ladies in particular. You've often wondered how lovely the ladies of Derse must be, stoically not thinking about the men of the same kingdom.

All this musing takes place in the hazy land of your dreams, and you are eventually awoken by another knock at your door. When you pull yourself out of your slumber enough to answer it, a servant enters and seems aghast to find you in such a vulnerable position, but you awaken enough to calm her in time. She hands you a pile of golden garments and a piece of parchment, and backs out of the room quickly.

Laying out the carefully folded clothes, you're struck yet again with the finery, the careful detailing in every row of stitching and golden swirl, and its hard to imagine yourself wearing it, much less that very afternoon. Your attention turns to the parchment, and your brows pull together as you read the familiar looping, oddly capitalised script.

_Jake,_

_I Have Completed Your Outfit For This Afternoon, And I Do Hope It Is Up To Your Satisfaction. Try Not To Muddy This Outfit, Will You? And If You Do, Do Remember I Do Not Wash, Simply Repair. You Certainly Are Quite The Lovable Troublemaker!_

_Your Loyal Tailor,_

_Kanaya_

You let out a short laugh at her audacity. No doubt if you had authority and no sense of humour she'd have lost her job and quite possibly her life for making such jokes at the expense of a prince, but you never hold it against her. She is an excellent seamstress, after all, as evidenced by the outfit currently laid out on your wooden floor - likely not the correct storage for such beautiful clothing, but what do you know? Fabrics aren't your strong suit, bows and arrows are. 

Speaking of which, you remember your bow and quiver are laying on the sheets where you were just a few moments ago, and spring from your position on the floor to return them to their correct places, the iron hooks on the wall. For a moment, you look at them proudly, eyes scanning over the smooth wood with longing, and for a minute or two you imagine yourself right back in the forest, sprinting and leaping over fallen trees and branches in hot pursuit of a fleeing animal, nocking an arrow and taking perfect aim to bring down just one of many kills, and, closing your eyes, you can feel the wind in your hair, the sting of too much oxygen at once, the feel of vines and thorns whipping against your skin. It's an utterly unique feeling, unlike anything you could ever hope to replicate outside of the forest, totally unlike anything within the castle walls.

You're never sure you're really suited to be a prince, because the castle walls feel constantly stifling, too close, too constricting. There's never enough oxygen within those stone walls, and the feeling of your royal pin on your breast always feels too heavy. That's hardly surprising, though. You shouldn't be within these walls. You should be in the world of greenery and adventures, the world of arrows and hunting and danger.

But you are not. You are within the stifling castle walls, and your sister is allowed to have a hut in the gardens to practise her witchcraft but you have always been too nervous to ask, and there is nothing to be done about it. Besides, the hunter life is hell. You know that. And you're glad you're within these walls, behind protection and stone, thick barriers between you and bloodthirsty predators intent on feeling human flesh between their jaws, able to sleep securely at night without the underlying terror that your house isn't as safe as you hope.

Besides, the princely life means you get to don gorgeous garments like these, and you run your fingers over the garments in question lovingly. Kanaya has excelled today. She always does. But these in particular, these are gorgeous.

There is an exquisitely stitched doublet, looking for all the world like it could be pure burnished gold, but soft between your fingertips, and complete with a light, airy undershirt that makes you almost melt. The belt is hardened leather, and your dark trousers, the only dark garment in the ensemble, completed with heavy boots and various golden adornments that make you feel very out of place, and with a longing glance towards your bow, you sigh and lay out the beautiful clothes. You have time for a bath before you even need to begin thinking of the afternoons events, and with just that in mind, you call a servant to draw one up for you.

As you lay, naked and vulnerable, head swimming from the heady scents of oils, you watch the steam rise into the air and sigh. The condensed heat swirls and twists in the stillness, mesmerising to your blurry vision, given that your spectacles lie abandoned. There are many odd things about the royal family of Prospit, and one of them is that they all share a need for spectacles. You've heard rumours about the Derse royals eyes. According to hushed whispers you've caught in rare moments where servants are close enough to you to hear, one of the Derse princes has eyes like the devil, and the Crown Prince has eyes like amber. You aren't entirely sure to what extent you believe it, but you've often pondered what such people must look like. Putting that alongside the rumours about climate and snow, you think they must look utterly like vampires. All pale skin and pale hair and striking, contrasting eyes that scream supernatural mischief.

In rather uninteresting contrast, your own eyes are slivers of the emeralds Jade keeps strung up by her door. She insists they embody love, peace, contentment, loyalty, words that you know should be positive but you can't help feeling are untrue. After all, something that looks so like a part of you cannot be so beautiful and meaningful, can it?

You have a bit of a reputation for not holding yourself in very high regard, and Jane often berates you for it. But you, regrettably, never listen. After all, you're just the "other Prince". The outcast. Embodying nothing but loneliness and pointless adventuring with nowhere to go. But there is reason behind your low opinion on yourself, and Jane knows it. You all know it. You ignore it.

Time slips away from you, silent, quick, and before long you're dressing yourself in burnished gold and affixing a pin that feels too heavy to your chest, adjusting it until it lies flat against your breast and sighing, watching in your looking glass as it rises and falls below your clavicle. The clothes are barely there, feather-light as an angels touch, but you cant help but feel enclosed, despite the garments being airier than your hunting outfit. Perhaps its the finery. Perhaps its your nature. Perhaps, just perhaps, there's something entirely wrong with the way you are, that makes you want to rip the clothing off and crush your pin beneath your feet.

Speaking of the pin, you lean in to examine it, sighing at the intricate details. You will never understand why your pin has the most detail out of all the royals in Prospit. It's hardly like you deserve it. But there it is, two golden wings unfurling from just atop your heart, swirling with an elegance you will never achieve. And you look at yourself in the soft light, in your dusty looking glass, and you sigh, and wonder just how you are expected to make it through the day without making a fool of Prospit.

The day is a big one, and you are consumed with fears that you will underperform, that you will disappoint John, that you will disappoint your kingdom, and it takes a shaky breath or ten before you can even consider leaving your quarters. Just this morning you were in the forest, but now you are terrified, pure and simple.

For today is the first peaceful negotiation between Derse and Prospit for what must be decades, complete with a ball, and you are terrified of the unknown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been working on this chapter for almost 5 days, no exaggeration, and I hope its alright.  
> Royalty AUs are my favourite, and I hope this ones up to par.  
> Updates will probably be fairly slow given how long just this one took me, so I'm sorry, but I'll try!  
> Thank you for reading!


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